


Atlas Bowed

by rightsidethru



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Description of a panic attack., Fix-It of Sorts, Forgiveness, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, References to Greek mythology., Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, winteriron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 07:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11939310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: There were nights where nightmares dogged James Buchanan Barnes’ dreams and, no matter how hard he otherwise tried, sleep would not come after awakening, sweat-soaked and heart racing frantically within the confines of the ex-assassin’s chest. Those were the nights when James eventually gave up, realizing that sleep was something that was beyond him, and instead headed up to the Compound’s rooftop to watch the trails meander their way across the sky until dawn’s first touch blushed at the horizon.++Unlike previous nights, James is joined by an unexpected visitor.





	Atlas Bowed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ali_aliska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ali_aliska/gifts).



_Last things last_  
_By the grace of the fire and the flames_  
_You're the face of the future, the blood in my veins, oh ooh_  
_The blood in my veins, oh ooh_  
_But they never did, ever lived, ebbing and flowing_  
_Inhibited, limited_  
_Till it broke open and rained down_  
_You rained down, like..._  
“Believer” – Imagine Dragons

++

There were nights where nightmares dogged James Buchanan Barnes’ dreams and, no matter how hard he otherwise tried, sleep would not come after awakening, sweat-soaked and heart racing frantically within the confines of the ex-assassin’s chest. Those were the nights when James eventually gave up, realizing that sleep was something that was beyond him, and instead headed up to the Compound’s rooftop to watch the trails meander their way across the sky until dawn’s first touch blushed at the horizon.

It was peaceful on the roof—with most of the Avengers asleep or away on missions and the Compound’s grounds stretching away from the main building, painted in shades of black and silver: there was no one to disturb him, and James was allowed to just… _be_. Silent and contemplative, grateful for the fact that the Avengers’ headquarters was miles away from the nearest town; no light pollution to ruin the visual of the stars and Milky Way endlessly spiraling above his head—and, too, no need to consider the possibility of civilian casualties when the Winter Soldier brushed too close to James’ conscious awareness.

Tonight was such a night: both with the nightmares that haunted the edges of James’ dreams, lurking within the shadows as Eldritch monsters, drifting up from the deep, unknown abyss hidden within his mind--as well as the arctic chill of a consciousness that should have been foreign to James but was instead as familiar to the sniper as a well-loved, favorite rifle. Exhaustion tightened the skin at the corners of the dark-haired man’s eyes, and James did his best to shake off sharp-edged thoughts as he stared up to watch the moon meander lower towards the distant treeline.

A scuff of a shoe’s sole against the gravel covering the rooftop—the sound deliberately done—let James know that he was no longer alone; he didn’t tense, however, or look away from his star-gazing. If it had been anyone other than an Avenger, FRIDAY would have sounded the alarm—and, besides, an amateur wouldn’t have given themselves away so easily.

The delicate _chink_ of glass settling against concrete finally made the sniper look away from his star-gazing, eyes going slightly wide with surprise when his icy gaze settled upon a rarely-seen Tony Stark.

James’ relationship with the other man was… complicated at best and non-existent at worst—which could also be applied to most of the other Avengers, as well. The inventor mostly kept to his workshop ever since the ex-Avengers had been pardoned by the U.N. and moved back into the Compound: at times, it felt like Tony was more ghost than man, and it made something sharply tense settle within James’ chest at the knowledge that the engineer kept his distance from the people who were one-time friends and now nothing more than ‘team’ only on the battlefield.

“Hope you don’t mind some company,” the shorter man began unexpectedly, breaking the silence that had been stretching between the both of them, pulling taut and uncomfortable with James having no idea what he was supposed to _say_ to this unanticipated visitor. “I can leave if you want, but FRIDAY says that you usually stay up here until dawn when you come up to the roof.”

“…you’re welcome to stay,” James eventually answered, tentative in a way that he hadn’t felt in-- _years_ , maybe. Wrong-footed, in a way, and certainly awkward: the closest that James had been to being alone with the inventor since Siberia was when Tony had been outfitting him with a new arm, Steve hovering and borderline-suspicious in the background. None of the men had talked then, either, both because of the tension that had continued to remain unbroken amongst the three of them, as well as the rock music that Tony had blasted from the workshop’s speakers—a non-verbal line drawn in the sand that James hadn’t been willing to cross. Not then.

Tony hummed in response and picked up the bottle of liquor that had accompanied him, pouring amber liquid into two heavy, crystal tumblers. The inventor picked up the glass closest to him, giving the alcohol an absent swirl within the glass before taking an appreciative sip of his drink. James watched the other’s ministrations, the way that Tony’s fingers curled around the tumbler, the way that tendons flexed along his neck, working as the whiskey slid down the other man’s throat—and glanced back down to the silently offered, second glass. 

“I can’t get drunk,” the sniper felt the need to point out, _knowing_ that Tony was aware of this fact—he had to have been considering the fact that he had known Steve for _years_ \--but not understanding why the other man had poured the glass, anyway, even if it was supposed to be some sort of truce-related statement.

“I know,” Tony answered readily enough, confirming the fact that the ex-assassin’s observations had been correct. “But sometimes it’s not about getting drunk. Sometimes it’s just about enjoying the taste.”

 _Compass Box Hedonism Quindecimus Whisky_ \--the name certainly sounded pretentious enough.

Wary but still game, James picked up the second tumbler that had been poured for him and took a drink of the amber liquid within. The taste was… not what the sniper had been expecting. There was no lingering hint of peat, just rich heaviness, thick like honey and flowers, and _full_ \--decadent in a way that James hadn’t been anticipating but perhaps should have. Tony tended to be full of unexpected surprises on the battlefield. Perhaps the pattern continued even off of it--James didn't know the other man well enough to answer that, but... he wanted to. Even if that was something James only ever admitted to himself.

The ex-assassin took a moment to close his eyes, breathing in the whiskey’s scent as he took another, deeper sip of his drink.

“It’s good; thanks,” James murmured, voice low in the silence that the night provided, husky from the burn of the alcohol. He let the heat settle, coating his stomach and warming him from the marrow outwards: another sip was all he allowed himself before the sniper finally asked: “FRIDAY already let you know I was here, Stark… why’d you come up?”

No accusation: only careful, neutral curiosity.

A desire to understand this man who seemed to have so meticulously--deliberately done--burned his bridges with most of the others.

Tony was silent for several long moments, throat bared as his face tilted up to stare up at the star-studded sky. James watched him, glacial-hued gaze taking in minute details, assessing cues as to what had finally broken Tony’s distance and had made him decide to seek his parents’ killer’s company.

Eventually, the engineer gave a thoughtfully considering sound. “Any familiarity with the story of Atlas?”

James’ earlier memories were still mostly bits and pieces—things barely remembered or not at all; the question, however, triggered several flashbacks: a nun standing at the front of the classroom, stern-faced as she taught her class; the uncomfortable press of a wooden chair against his tailbone and the irritated thought that the carpenter _had_ to have designed it specifically to encourage fidgeting; pouring over ancient stories in a dog-eared, tattered textbook that the school had given to him to study from. “…Greek, right?” James began uncertainly, nudging at the memories to see if he could unearth more. “He’s the Titan that holds up the sky, yeah?”

“That’s right,” Tony answered and tipped his tumbler in congratulations in James’ direction at the other’s correct reply. “He sided with the Titans in their war against the Olympians, and when the Greek gods won, Atlas’ punishment was to hold up the sky.”

The sniper remained silent, taking another sip of his drink even as discomfort and unease pricked along his skin at the mention of a _war_. It was so easy to believe that Tony tended to be careless with his words, dismissive in so many instances—but James had been trained to observe, to study and see patterns long before HYDRA and the Red Room had gotten their claws into him. The gray-eyed man knew better, and he waited for Tony to continue.

“I know what the others say about me; I know what they think. I honestly don’t care anymore—there’s no point in arguing, especially when there are bigger things to focus on. I don’t know what _you_ believe or think, Barnes; in the end, whatever it is, it’s your choice to determine what’s true and what’s not. All I can do is tell you that, from the moment that I learned the truth, that Stark weapons were being sold under the table and used against innocents—civilians—I tried my best to shoulder the weight of responsibility and accountability for my company's actions. I did my best to stop it from happening, ensuring that it could never happen again by deciding that Stark Industries would no longer make weapons. By going after the weapons that _had_ been sold. That burden's gotten heavier as the years have passed: responsibility, accountability, trauma, horror, guilt—lots of different things added to the original weight. Sometimes it feels like it’s--I'm--to the point of bowing. Of breaking. But…”

Tony absently shrugged and took another sip of his drink, never looking James’ way.

“I had the chance to do a lot of thinking while you and the others were in Wakanda. Before the pardons went through and while I was--healing. The weight had gotten even heavier, and I decided that there were things I had shouldered that I hadn’t _needed_ to. Guilt. Hate. Anger. Helplessness. I know that I’ll never be able to get actual justice for my parents’ deaths. The HYDRA officers who ordered the hit are dead and blaming you… there’s no _point_. You were the weapon they used, the Winter Soldier was the gun whose trigger they pulled—but that wasn’t _you_. You were a prisoner of war, brainwashed and tortured and made into a tool. It made me angry—still does—but I don’t _want_ to be angry. Not anymore. Not when you were as much a victim as my parents were. I don’t want to carry that weight anymore, Barnes. I don't want it resting on my shoulders, and it doesn't _have_ to be. Not unless I allow it.”

James’ fingers tightened enough on the tumbler to crack the crystal, hairline fractures spreading out from his grip to make their way over the surface like wintertime frost upon a window. “Stark—“ the sniper began, stuttering and swallowing roughly: wanting Tony to stop because these are things that he doesn’t _deserve_ to hear, not from the Stark heir, not when James’ mission had taken the mother Tony had so desperately loved away from him. “Please. Don’t—“

Tony finally shifted his attention away from his determined star-gazing, settling a dark gaze shaded by moonlight upon James’ face. He did not look away, and each following word came deliberate and almost cruel in their kindness.

“I understand that it was never your choice—that you were a victim and a tool. I understand that you regret what happened, anyway, even when none of it was your fault and your responsibility. I understand that you don’t think that you deserve it, but I forgive you for what happened. And... I am sorry for how I attacked you in Siberia,” Tony stated, almost supernaturally calm except for how his fingers curled into the soft fabric of his pajama pants. “I’m tired of carrying around this particular weight, Barnes—and I don’t need to. Or want to. So I choose not to. I forgive you and ask for your forgiveness in turn.”

There was a shuddering, broken thing lodged in the ex-assassin’s chest, and the tumbler suddenly fell from nerveless, senseless fingers; James gasped for breath, light-headed and desperate for _air_ as his vision grayed and spotted and his hearing buzzed with static. He could not find his balance, desperate for foundation—for steady earth—even as the world fell out beneath him: there was the void and silence and muffled thoughts and distant, unattainable awareness—

James’ fingers wrapped tight around the other man’s forearm, and the warmth of skin beneath his metal fingers, muscle cording beneath his touch, too quick pulse thrumming against fingertips—consciousness slamming back into him as he _gasped_ and _breathed_ and _lived_ and _needed_ so desperately.

When he saw James’ eyes open once more, aware as they met his own, Tony carefully reached out to grip the sniper’s arm with his free hand, hold tight and reassuring and a foundational rock in the turbulent sea that James’ thoughts and emotions and _self_ had become; there was a steadiness in the engineer’s hold that James clung to, clutched tight to—didn’t let go of.

“It’s okay,” Tony murmured, voice and gaze both steady and impeachable. “It’s going to be okay.”

And the sniper knew that he shouldn’t—knew that there was so much before him, an endless road that had no end in sight because _forgiveness_ couldn’t ever be that simple, no matter how determined a person was to shed the weight of hate and guilt from their shoulders, no matter how much Tony was desperate to do so—but James still couldn’t help but _believe_.

Fingers still wrapped tight around Tony’s forearm, the ex-assassin allowed his head to tip down, forehead finally resting against the other man’s collarbone even as he refused to acknowledge how his cheeks were drenched, droplets beading off of the edge of his jawline to fall onto the cloth of Tony’s pajama bottoms below.

The inventor cupped a hand over the back of James’ neck, and the sniper bowed beneath the steady, reassuring hold.

The stars traveled their way across the sky overhead, and the ex-assassin felt their way settle across the breadth of his shoulders—so much lighter, however, than before with Tony’s voice murmuring against his ear and the warmth of calloused fingers like a benediction against his nape: and James clung as desperately to that _belief_ as he did to the man who had sparked it to life.

“Don’t go,” James whispered and waited for dawn to once more break upon the horizon.

::fin::

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first venture into WinterIron and was written for chernaya_aliska, who's the incredibly talented author of [Winter's End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307321)\--which happens to be one of my absolute favorite WinterIron fics. ;D
> 
> ++
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! :)
> 
> Come say hi over at [my Tumblr](http://rightsidethru.tumblr.com/) if you're feeling chatty. <3


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